Too Late For Goodbyes
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Kutner's death had a huge impact on House, but he wasn't dealing with it. At all. Then, a friend showed up to help him through the tough times. House/ Kutner slash, OOC, AU, child abuse. This is sort of a complain piece for Cats and Kutner.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't own The Sixth Sense, What Dreams May Come, Medium, House, or anything else that would make me any money. More to come soon.

"There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed.

Some forever not for better.

Some have gone and some remain.

All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends.

I still can recall, some are dead and some are living.  
In my life I've loved them all  
But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you,  
and these memories lose their meaning; when i think of love as something new," John Lennon and Paul McCartney

I got home right around the time that Kutner's funeral was probably heating up—ha!—got out a bottle of bourbon, placed it next to my pills on the coffee table, laid down on the sofa, and turned on the TV. It wasn't that I hadn't been invited to the damn thing; I just don't see the point in them. Even if I'm wrong about everything, funerals aren't for the dead person. It's not like the corpse is gonna sit up and say, 'gee thanks I'm so glad you all think so highly me,' or hear what we say, or see what we do, or, well…anything. They're all about the idiot family members and stupid friends who are still here. In this case, it's for a bunch people who feel bad because they screwed up; so they all hang out together and laugh about the good ol' days and tell each other they couldn't have known what was going to happen, they couldn't of done anything. I figured I'd just annoy everyone, get yelled at, and come home feeling worse than when I left.

Three drinks, four pills, and two half hour cartoons—I wasn't actually paying attention, but it let me focus on the simple sounds and images instead of anything bigger—later he showed up. He stepped inside, and started telling me that what happened wasn't my fault. _There's nothing you could have done. Don't blame yourself, blah, blah, blah._

"Shut up," I ordered. He didn't. I turned up the volume on the television, and tried to ignore him. The moron sat down, by my face, and placed his hand on my head, touching my hair, and told me he was sorry about not coming by sooner, not being here for me, all that crap. "Oh knock it off, I am completely wasted, and you're not comforting me. If anything you're making it worse."

"Would it help if I told you I'd been planning this for years," Lawrence asked, smiling at me sort of gently. I rolled my eyes tiredly, fully convinced that I was either hallucinating from the pills, booze and lack of sleep, or passed out and dreaming. "I didn't say anything because I knew you'd feel a million times worse if I begged for your help, and you couldn't make me better, and I did this anyway."

"Oh shut up, you're not him! You're a piece of my drug-addled brain trying to make itself feel better, a hallucination—or something equally stupid and pathetic. Dead people don't come back to say 'I love you' or 'goodbye' or to tell everyone they didn't screw up."

"But I'm not talking to everyone," the hallucination/ dream explained. "And do you really think that _your _mind would try and comfort itself? You hate yourself. You wanna hurt, which is why I have to do this." I sighed, exhausted. "Is there anything I can tell you to make you believe me?" His eyes did that adorable, puppy-dog thing.

"Except that I already know everything he knew. And even if there is something he knew that I didn't there's no way to prove that I'm not making it up in my dream-state," I snapped, closing my eyes in the hopes that this hallucination would end as soon as I acknowledged it as one. Like last time.

"I got you a birthday present," he started to tell me, stupidly, and I jumped on that one, mainly because it was such a preposterous idea. "I know…your birthday is in September. I got it in July, but chickened out, and left it in the place I was hiding it. Your gift is still there."

"So give it to me," I ordered, eyes squeezed shut. I was half hoping to fall asleep again, half because I'd tried before, a couple of times. Every time I closed my eyes for more than a second, I saw Lawrence: smiling at me, his hands on my shoulders, mine on his hips, bodies pressed together, happily, or asleep, smiling like a little kitten, or in the shower, or on the couch, our bodies close together, play station controllers his and my hands, an open pizza box on the table, or any one of a million other poses.

"Sorry, I can't. I can show you where it is, but—can't…I'm sorry, again. I can't pick up, move, or carry things. I'm not Bruce Willis_, _and I didn't get you a bumble bee pendent. Come on, it's not far." He grabbed my hands, and tried to pull me up, but even if he'd had the leverage of his full body weight, it wouldn't have worked. In this case it was just pathetic, watching him try so hard and not get anywhere. "It's in the freezer." _Yeah, right, _I thought. _Like I could go for seven months and not notice a "present" in the freezer. _"It's hidden in a box of Vegan sausage patties."

"Good thing I didn't throw all his crappy food out yet," I murmured, standing up, not to actually go and look for whatever, but because I was hungry. "How long is this hallucination going to last?" I wondered out loud, pretty sure that I wouldn't get a straight answer even if I wasn't—not that I believed this was real—sleeping. I pulled the freezer door open, and started to dig through the thirty or forty frozen breakfast, dinner, and ice cream containers.

"It's way in the back. There, take those out, put them on the counter. Now go behind the blueberry waffles, and under…there. I told you so," he said, as if the existence of the box proved anything.

"He occasionally ate chicken, but liked all this tofu crap. Think he was a vegetarian," I lied. I knew he had been. "There are probably a dozen veggie thingies in the fridge and freezer. This doesn't mean anything." He sighed, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Shouldn't that feel all eerie and cold and go right through me?"

"How should I know, I've only been dead for two days. I'm not an expert in this stuff," he offered, simply, like a five-year-old. "Open the box. It's nothing to be afraid of. I promise it's not bad." I rolled my eyes again, but pulled the container open. Inside was another box, slightly smaller, and thinner, wrapped in red, and yellow and purple paper that said happy birthday all over it, with bow tied around the wrapping, and an envelope taped to one side? "You don't have to open that now, if you're not ready."

"Oh go to Hell," I snapped, and then stared, stupidly. "Um, I didn't just—I sort of…I didn't. Sort of. That was, what—did I say, I didn't mean…I'm sorry," I finally managed to come up with. He hugged me.

"It's okay; I'm glad you said that. It's good. It means you're doing better. Only, now you feel bad about it. Don't be mad at yourself," he instructed. "Don't hurt yourself. I can't tell you not be sad, that would be stupid of me, because you were sad before we ever met."

"I have a very good reason for that," I shouted.

"I know," he whispered, gently, wrapping his arms around me, and refusing to let go. "I know everything now. I wanted to be with you, I still want to be with you. I don't think you hate me, in fact—I understand exactly how you feel, so don't feel guilty about that. This has almost nothing to do with you." I smirked. "I was going to kill myself long before I met you, and none of this—I…you helped me hang on longer. Never would of made it this long without you. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't want to hurt you."

"Stop it! This isn't real! This isn't happening. Just go away and leave me alone," I screamed, throwing the 'present' into the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. "Get offa-me!" I pushed him away, and dropped to the floor, knees pulled as close to my chest as possible, fingers in my ears, shouting, "not real" over and over. I don't know how long I sat there. After a while my throat started to get sore, and my leg was hurting. The fake hand pressed down on my shoulder, softly. "Why is this still happening? I don't wanna have this stupid fucking dream anymore! I don't want it! I don't want it," I sobbed.

"I can't go," he whispered, sitting down next to, and wrapping his arms around me. "I have to stay here with you."

"Have to," I muttered, looking at something in the corner of the room, closing my eyes again, and counting to fifty my head. I would have counted further but he wasn't leaving and I wasn't calming down. "Why?"

"Because I messed up. I _hurt _you, upset you and you're not ready to be alone."

"I've been alone for forty years," I spat back, pushing him away again angrily, but not violently. Only this time he didn't let go, wouldn't let go. "Nothing has changed. Nothing."

"In two months, Wilson's going to be over here, laughing and watching a movie with you, and he'll look over, and for no reason, smile, and decide to stay the rest of the night on the couch. Only, he's not going to sleep on the sofa. He'll realize he's in love with you. He's gonna make you happy. He'll know what to do when you have nightmares about what you're—for lack of another word—dad did. He'll know how to make it hurt less," Kutner explained, pressing his hand against my chest, "in here." I snorted. "I'm not supposed to tell you about that. I'm also not supposed to tell you that your fake dad is in a cold, dark, scary place, with ten holes in each of his legs, or that monsters come out of the darkness and do to him what he did to you when you were a baby all day and all night, only it's never day there. It's only pitch black night."

"But I don't believe in any of this. How am I supposed to trust any of what 'you' are supposedly telling me, if I don't," I cut myself off. "He's dead. Dead people can't talk. They're gone. They don't come back or go anywhere else. _This _is it, and he's not _here _anymore. How am I supposed to believe that you're the real you if the real 'you' is dead?" The hallucination of Kutner made the puppy dog face again, and shrugged, helplessly. "Tell me something else, something—you couldn't of known about me, or my life. Since you know "everything" now it shouldn't be all that difficult, now should it? So just, tell me something. Anything."

"You have a scar behind your left ear. It's covered now, but you can still see it, in the mirror, by pushing your hair out of the way. It's from a cigarette burn. You got it when you were 8, and on a camping trip…with, the—I didn't know it was there before. I know what you're thinking, that I could have discovered that one day, by watching you while you were asleep, but I didn't. Okay, how's this? You tell everyone—including yourself—that you don't believe in the afterlife, but the truth is, you're terrified of eternity. You think that you've been a terrible person, and you're gonna end up some place worse than this."

"That's just bad, cheep, pop psychology. Even my brain could think of that crap, although—granted, it's the sort of thing Wilson would usually say to me. You still haven't proved anything." This time he sighed, which made me think it was all in my mind even more. I was still cycling between feeling angry at Kutner, and the world, and the situation, and terrified of the idea of a dead person in my apartment, trying to comfort me, or that I'd believe that he really _was _a ghost, when he wasn't, lose what was left of my sanity. I felt like I was on that carnival ride where you go inside the little spaceship, and it turns around and around and around so fast that you get pinned up against the walls. You can fight, and you can fight, and maybe you turn yourself around a little, so you're upside down or sideways, but you can't move, you can't get away. Only now, the world was spinning, endless. I was trying with all my might, but I couldn't get of the ride, or make it stop, or even slow down a little.

"That present, the one you're throwing away, um…you remember when we went to the carnival thingy, and we took those pictures in the photo booth? You told me to get rid of them, but I didn't. I had a friend decorate them, and put it in a nice frame. If you wanna go back to my apartment I can show you were I've got some really cool stuff hidden. You can take, well technically anything, but you'll probably get caught with the more expensive stuff."

"I don't want your crappy Star Wars props," I teased, part of me desperate to believe that this was real_, _and hoping that if it was_,_ he wouldn't disappear_. _ "Or your stupid little baby toys."

"You have toys too—and don't make that into a sex joke; you can do better—a lot of them. So what's the difference between yours and mine? What makes your _videogames_, and balls, and magic tricks any different from my action figures, blasters, and light sabers," he asked, reaching for my stomach as if he were about to tickle me, but then he stopped himself, and took a step back.

"Umm…maybe that I'm 12, and you were 6 which means that while I'm pathetic and emotionally stunted, I'm still twice your age. And I'm still pretty sure that I'm just sitting here, talking to myself."

"Well at least you'll get good drugs when they lock you up on the psych ward," Kutner offered, and smiled. I let myself do the same. "You wanna go back to the den?" I shrugged. "I don't think your leg will do so well if you spend the night sitting on the kitchen floor."

"So? I'll take a couple extra Vicodin, and be fine…er, well. I'll be back to my regular, old, miserable self," I explained, but started to stand up, and follow him anyway. "Why do you care so much? You got to take the easy way out, why can't I take a few too many pills and pass out for 18 hours?"

"Because if you accidentally OD and die, they're gonna take away my wings," he explained, blushing. _This _got my attention. He must have known it would, which was his only reason for saying it.

"You have wings? Can I see them? Can I, look—I mean, if you're trying to prove to me that there is a afterlife, then showing me angel wings will absolutely get me to believe in God and Heaven and Jesus, or Allah, or whatever."

"I don't actually have wings, per say. It's an expression. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd take me so seriously, which is kind of stupid of me, but I'm kind of stupid anyway. It's just. Apparently the people who are in charge or whatever think you're high risk for…and—okay, so everyone is supposed to be around for a specific amount of time. Some people get cancer when they're 2 and die when they're 4-years-old and it sucks but that's what's supposed to happen. Apparently I was close, so I got off easy, but if you—you know, now, you'll spend what feels like an eternity, in a cold, dark place, where you're the size of a four-year-old, and there won't be actually monsters, but you're still gonna think there are." I couldn't believe my ears, again. "I have to stay here until you're."

"And what if I'm never okay," I asked, already knowing the answer. Lawrence made more puppy dog eyes. "You're comforting me, by telling me that I was wrong, about everything?" I had more questions but held back, _for now_. I told myself. I needed answers, about what he'd done, about the Universe, afterlife—or lack there of—my life, God—I still didn't think there was one—and everything else. Kutner stood next to me, put his arm around my shoulder and helped me back to the den, where we collapsed on the sofa together. He tried to hold me there, but I wasn't exactly cooperative. I fought, pushed away from him, but the idiot wouldn't let go. Finally we settled on laying together, his arms around my shoulders and arms, his body between me and the back of the sofa. "Tell me, or I'll figure out a way to kick you in the balls."

"No, you weren't wrong. Not really. Most religious people think that their book tells the absolute truth about absolutely everything, but you and I both know that it's not possible. You don't think there's any god, and that every bible, Koran—okay I'm gonna stop using examples and get to the point. There is an afterlife, but the place where people like us go, is not religious. It's not all puffy clouds and harp music. There is a place for people who think that Heaven is only for the perfect, god-fearing Christians, or whatever. Each of them has their own, nice little park, with soft, comfortable benches, and the place is completely private. Only people like them are allowed there. But most of us, except for the truly evil monsters—child molesters, murderers, people who defraud charities—go to this huge place. It's a lot like Earth, except that it doesn't hurt. No one hurts. And you can do pretty much whatever you want. If you want a condo on the beach, you can build one, and dive into the water from your bedroom window, and swim for days, never getting tired. If you always wanted to paint, you can paint. If you wanna teach, or study something, they have books, if you wanna—apparently new arrivals go through a period of being physically and mentally exhausted, and they need 'doctors' and 'nurses' to take care of them. There's more but I don't think you'd really listen, and even if you would, you're not ready to hear about all of it, okay?" I shrugged, rubbing my face against his, sniffing him.

"You don't smell like you, and shouldn't—you shot yourself in the head, but there's no sign of that. If you're really the ghost of my dead boyfriend/ employee, then why don't you look like a dead person," I asked, still trying to figure out what was going on, why my mind was torturing me like this.

'Because looking at me and seeing _that_ would freak you out, majorly. I can make it go back to the way it was. Another thing about…you can make yourself appear however you want. Could be white, or black, or I could look like Han Solo, or Luke or Anakin Skywalker. I could be a chick, a dude, a kid, a teen, an adult, an old person. I can look like me, you, Cuddy, Wilson. I can change my voice, and even the size of certain parts of my body…you know like my nose." He smirked. "Do you want to see it, or can I just keep looking like _I _want?"

"Maybe staring at the giant gaping hole in your head, with blood and brains spilling out isn't the healthiest thing for me to be doing right now," I admitted, pathetic, weak, and small. "How long do you hafta keep on bothering me for?" I started to think about all the things he had said, letting them really sink in, and suddenly I realized something. "Wait, I've got another question, and it's essential that you answer this one first. If the day I'm gonna die, and that Wilson's gonna die, and when Amber and my fake dad and every one on the planet is going to die is already set, then what's the deal with free will? If I'm supposed to go from heart disease can I smoke four packs a day? Would that change anything? If I got lung cancer and died from that would I have to go to the—place?"

"I'm the last person you should be asking about this. I got exactly enough time to recover from the transition, a quick briefing on what I needed to know/ understand before I did this, was told what my options were, and then they sent me right here." Lawrence stuffed his hands into the pockets of the jeans he was wearing, and blushed again. I wanted to ask a million other questions, but knew he didn't know anything else. "I wish I could tell you more. I'm not even supposed to let you know about this stuff."

"Obviously they don't care if you tell me, because if they did they would of sent someone who could control me in even the slightest way, and who wouldn't do anything to please me. Or they would have threatened you with something you're more scared of than me." He acted like he hadn't thought of this before, but I had a feeling it was for my benefit. And yet, I got the, _oh my god you're such a genius; I can't believe it, but you're right, _response. "Can I just watch TV, take a couple extra Vicodin and stare into space for a while?" Kutner nodded, touching my hair softly, gently, the way he used to sometimes.

I popped the lid off the prescription bottle, and poured six pills into my hand, mostly to see what he'd do. When he acted like this was normal, I checked the clock and saw that nearly 5 hours had passed since my last pill. I put three back, took the first two, without thinking. Then, I held the last one in between my thumb and finger, turning it over, staring at it for what felt like an eternity before making up my mind, and putting it back in the bottle. "I don't suppose you can drink some of this, huh," I asked, offering him the booze.

"No, but even if I could, I wouldn't. Learned my lesson that one last time," he explained, and I remembered, with a small smile—minuet really, almost non-existent—how I had offered him a swig of the stuff. He had taken it off course, and nearly coughed up a lung afterwards. 'I think I just drank fire,' he'd whispered.

Some more time passed. The pills and the drink I'd taken kicked in, fully. I relaxed a little, and lay there quietly, my head pressed right up against his chest, as I listened, part of me fully expecting a heartbeat, or the sound of him breathing, but it wasn't there. I felt nothing, heard nothing.

"Why are you…you're not usually like this. Act like yourself. I want you to be—if I have to have a nervous breakdown and I'm seeing dead people, then they should at least act like normally. Stop being so gentle and paternal. You think you're comforting me but you're not." He stared at me, with the puppy dog eyes. "And stop doing that. It's annoying, not adorable."

"So you want me to make stupid jokes, point out the obvious, and try and make Harry Potter, or the Justice League analogies, even when they don't work? You hate it when I do that. Of course if I do, you'll know it's me because you don't know nothin' about Harry Potter. It's gotta be way more annoying than being _nice_—oh shit. I just figured it out," he admitted, blushing again. If I wasn't so exhausted, I'd think it was cute. "'Sorry, I won't be nice ever again." I actually laughed. "See, stupider already."

"Yeah well, I'm dealing with a guy who set one patient on fire with a defibrillator I don't set my expectations all that high," I told him, and watched the sort of sad look take over his face. "Damnit! I screwed up, _again._" Kutner instantly started smiling again, his face all soft and bright. "What the he—what are you doing?"

"You didn't make me kill myself, Greg. Yeah, I'm calling you by your first name. Deal with it. I'm pretty sure I don't work for you anymore anyway. So, no more Dr. House this or Dr. House that, oh and—and I had to do something, or the chick was gonna die! You even said I made the right decision," he tried to defend, back to the astronaut with the fake tits.

"No, I told Cutthroat—I mean, I told Amber that it would be stupid to punish you because you saved the patient's life, even though you did set her on fire, since she hadn't done anything to stop you, which was meant that she didn't have a problem with what you did, she just wanted to get rid of you."

"You didn't fire me or her, even when Cole won the challenge," he tried again. I smiled, shaking my head. _Will this kid ever learn? _"What, you got a smart ass answer for that too?"

"You should know me well enough by know to know that I have a smart ass answer for absolutely everything. And I got rid of Big Love because he teamed up with Cuddy to screw with me. He cheated, and would of kept on tattling to Cuddy every time I did something I shouldn't of. That's why I fired the moron," I explained, but honestly I probably would of gone with the guy's recommendations if he had picked anyone else.

"How long did it take you to figure out that I liked you…you know, that way?" he asked, and I lifted my head to look at him again. There was something strange about his skin—or body, maybe, I couldn't tell for sure—but I couldn't figure out exactly what. It was almost glowing. In a way.

"Do you really care about that?" I really, really, didn't feel like talking about this, but knew he was gonna let it go. Lawrence even made the puppy dog face, _again. _"When you came back with your number on upside down. Everyone else I fired accepted defeat, left. And don't try and bullshit me, and say you just really, really, really wanted the job. All 40 of you really, really, really wanted the job, but nobody else I fired was stupid enough to come back and try to trick me."

"I wasn't trying to trick you," he explained, as he started to rub my back. "I thought you'd appreciate my cunning and sneaky—ness." I was about to say, _that's not even a word, _but he smiled, and blushed, once more. "Okay, I was sort of hoping it would make you, _like _me, or notice my existence."

"You are—were—kind of hard to miss, especially considering how many times you almost destroyed the hospital," I quipped, reaching up and tussling his hair. "This is so weird. Everything feels real…at least everything I've touched so far. You're not cold, and there's no blood or anything."

"You broke two MRI machines in less than a year! And gave a gun back to the guy who had taken you and the rest of the clinic hostage. You were going to let Chase to surgery in a patient's home, and—I'm not the only one who blew something up."

"First off, I only broke _one _of those MRIs, Cameron was the one who forced the fat guy into the other one and smashed it to bits, and it's true, Thirteen did leave the so-called musician alone in the bathroom with an oxygen tank, and the thing did explode when he tried to smoke a cigarette, but everyone else who blew up or destroyed something learned their lesson; it never happened again." Even more puppy dog eyes. "Stop doing that too; it's only half as adorable as you think it is. And how did we even get to this conversation?"

"I asked how long it took you to figure out that I liked you. And if you knew so soon, how come you didn't put the moves on me until the night you made the final decision about who was and wasn't hired."

"Mostly because I was positive you weren't gonna make the cut, and the last thing I needed was to get sued by some kid I fucked and fired. Plus, I didn't put the moves on you; you followed me to my apartment, and pretty much let yourself in. I should of called the police and said you were a stalker."

"Kinda hard to convince the police you don't want someone around when you've got them bent over the sofa with your pants around your ankles," he smirked, smiling proudly. "I'm sorry—not for what I just said but for…you know."

"Oh good, I was hoping we'd get to this point, prove that it's all just in my head. _He_ wouldn't have said that. If you wanted to tell us how sorry you were you, would of left a note," I explained.

"You wouldn't have found any more answers if I had. You wanna know why I did it? Why I didn't come to you? What happens next? Why I keep telling you things I'm not supposed to? Why whoever's in charge would tell me something, things they know I'm gonna tell you, and then order me not to say anything about it? Or maybe you wanna know what it felt like, how I feel now, what God looks like, or you wanna know about yourself. You couldn't control what happened to you when you were little; Heck, you can barely control it now. So, you go around and you dig up every big of information that you can, learn everything about everything, because if you can understand something, then maybe you can control it too, maybe it won't be so scary, because you won't be in the dark anymore, and then it won't hurt. You won't hurt, which is all you're really looking for. And the only question you really wanna ask is: why?" I wasn't completely sure which why he meant, but didn't really give a shit.

"Okay now I know that this is all in my mind, because even if he knew everything about everything that ever existed in the whole universe; _he _didn't talk like that. I do; Wilson will occasionally make a summation like that when he really wants to make a point, but there's no way—" Whoever was laying beside me lowered his head, pressed his lips against mine, and kissed me, rough, passionate. "I have an active imagination, a kiss, easy to remember, easy to convince myself it happened."

"Well I could give you a blow job, but I don't know if it'll actually help," he offered, hands out, innocently, shoulders shrugged, chin down. "I thought you'd take me more seriously if I could get into your head, use your logic, and I thought you already decided to believe that I'm really here. You can always tell yourself it was a hallucination or a dream later, when it's over."

"When is it gonna be over," I asked, half—maybe a little less than half—hoping he'd say never. As obnoxious it would be to have Kutner following me around for the rest of my life, making idiotic jokes, and second guessing me, he was right. He did get me, sort of. And we had spent nearly two years sleeping next to each other, screwing each other, laughing together, playing games, talking about everything, watching stupid movies. If it hadn't been for him, I don't know how I would of handled the whole Wilson hating/ not being able to be around me for four months thing, and I don't just mean because he prescribed my pills. He listened to me rant, and complain, and bitch, and moan, and (once, and mind you I thought my head was going to explode from the pain) cry. He kept me occupied, kept me from calling Jimmy and screaming at or calling him names.

"A week, or two, maybe—a little bit longer, I don't really know for sure," he explained, sadly. "Sorry, I'd tell you if I did. I'm supposed to keep a real close eye on you, make sure you don't hurt yourself too."

"Don't be stupid," I muttered. "I'm not gonna off myself." I lay still, quiet, and even a little scared. "Did it hurt," I finally worked up the nerve to ask what I'd wanted to know for ages, reaching up and touching the side of his face with my hand, brushing his hair back, running my fingers over the spot where the bullet hole should have been.

"I thought you got already got shot once before, technically twice, but it happened at the same time so it counts as one time," he explained, kissing the top of my head.

"I know what happened to me, but I don't really fully remember that day, especially the part about…I remember the guy walking in. I remember him saying he was a patient. I remember him pulling out the gun. I remember—actually that's pretty much it, then I went into the hallucination, and then I regained consciousness in the ER, and well, you know the rest of that story." Kutner sighed, and touched my hair a little. "Besides, I didn't—two through-and-throughs, no major organ damage, small amount of blood loss. I was fine, pretty much…"

"I should probably tell you it was the worst pain I ever experienced, that it hurt like crazy, to keep you from ever, ever doing it yourself, but like you said, you'll know it's a lie. It was fast, and I was terrified, which got my adrenalin going—so, even if it had been more than a fraction of a second long—I still wouldn't of felt anything."

"You know, when someone does that, their body goes through a whole series of disgusting…I mean, uh—the bowels basically empty. Sometimes, granted it happens more in hanging deaths than gunshots, there's also—" He cut me off mid-sentence.

"Yeah, I knew a thing or two about people getting shot. Go figure. I took a laxative the night before and…um—I didn't take Golytely, but uh, still spent most of the night getting emptied out," he explained, blushing a little. "Which is the main reason I didn't call you or come over that day." _Now I know it's you, because you're the only one stupid or weird enough to say THAT, _I thought, and I'm sure Kutner sensed it, because he sort of smiled, and patted me on the shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I'm changing the time line from the show by a few days, speeding things up.

"Go to sleep," Kutner demanded, maybe an hour later, and ran a hand through my hair. He had successfully convinced me t lay down, take a coupe pills; he'd even put an arm around my shoulder, and made me to put his favorite show on the television, but I was determined to stay awake. Although I don't know why that was. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I whispered, tiredly. He made the puppy dog eyes again. "Don." He sort of nodded, trying to look like he usually did. Now his hand moved down to my shoulders, rubbing in circles.

"Look, Greg, if you don't want me here, I can go back. Of course, they'll have to send someone else, and you barely like me, let alone—I don't even know who they'd send," he admitted, like a toddler after a cookie.

"Was that crappy attempt to threaten me, or a crappy attempt to try and get me to compromise with you," I asked, and let out a small yawn, despite my best efforts to cover it up.

"The second one. I just don't know who you like except for Wilson, and he's not dead. So…" I turned my attention back to the TV, but had no idea what was happening, and decided to change stations. Some cop show was just starting. "Uh—I don't think you should be watching this," he whined, as a shadowy figure shot some woman in a mini-skirt. Three blasts. She fell to the ground, blood everywhere. I checked my watch, tiredly, 3:00 AM. "I'm surprised you didn't throw that away. Sentimental, old fool." I rolled my eyes. "Come on, just switch back to cartoons. I think Family Guy is on. Watch that."

"Make me," I ordered unable to prevent another yawn. On screen two detectives were leaning over the body. I blinked a couple of times. He whispered something stupid like, _just relax, and let me take care of everything._ The next thing I knew, they were trying to get a hold of a suspect but he was nowhere to be found. I remember thinking, _what the hell is wrong with this episode; doesn't make any sense. _I blinked again; they were involved in an intense interrogation. I half paid attention, closing my eyes, but that's the last thing I remember for a while. I slept for so long that sun was going down through the window behind us. "How long was I out for," I asked groggily. Kutner smiled, and kissed my head. "Stop being weird. If I wanted someone to baby me, I'd call Cameron."

"Sorry, I just like this stuff…and I'm apologizing again, sorry." He blushed a little. "It's about 7:00. You finally passed out at around 4:30. That's what happens when you don't sleep for three days." I didn't blush, didn't even look away. "Oh and by the way Cameron did_ call_," he explained, almost gently. I sighed. _Oh goodie, _I thought, rolling my eyes. "Good news is; you might actually be able to finally hit that."

"Is that why she called or was it one of those generic, I love and worry about everybody messages?" Kutner made another face, the one he made when he thought he was in trouble. "It's not a case, is it?" He nodded. I rolled my eyes again. The phone rang once more. I picked up, talked for a minute, and agreed to come in and look at the thing, but hadn't actually made any promises about taking the case. Alison was already waiting in my office when I (and Kutner) arrived. I stared out the window, towards Wilson's window, the whole time she was talking. I came up with a theory, handed the folder back, and insisted she run the tests herself. Oddly enough she did it.

"You should go talk to Wilson," Lawrence suggested, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders. I sighed, and waited for Jimmy to go down to the cafeteria so I could at least have an excuse for following.

"Egg white omelet, no bacon, and the whole wheat toast," he told the cafeteria worker. Even Kutner looked shocked. I questioned him about it, but he deflected. "You're wearing the watch Kutner gave you for Secret Santa," he explained. _I've been wearing it every day for eight months, _I thought. _Shows how much attention you've been paying to me. _

"This baby has four different functions, including—stopwatch," I said, gauging his reaction before insulting his food some more. "So I can time your lectures," I added. "Stop watch, not the bacon. Though I could use that too, of course I'd probably get sick before you make your point…" Then I went upstairs to my office.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I meant when I told you to go and talk to him," Kutner whined as soon as we got there. I sighed, sitting down and making the "what the hell do you want"face. "Why don't you just tell him about us?"

"Because he doesn't know that I'm a—because I'm tired," I responded, looking at my feet. "And something weird is going on. Did you see what he ordered? Jimmy never gets that healthy garbage."

"Maybe he's trying to loose weight," he suggested, idiotically. I shot that one down. Wilson always worked out when he wanted to do that, and he'd eat less, but still scarffed down the same foods. "Maybe he…I dunno, sorry. Guess I left more of my brains on the wall than I remembered." I let out a small laugh.

"Am I at least right about the patient?" He had no idea, which was a bad sign, and things only got worse from there. Guy got sicker, Wilson had the most disgusting lunch on the planet, which meant something, I just had no idea what, and (of course) Kutner had absolutely no insights whatsoever into anything at all. "What's the point of having a dead guy following me around who is supposed to know everything in the Universe if he can't handle a simple diagnostics case," I mocked later, back in my office.

"Your cases are never simple. Even that magician who had Lupus got complicated 'cuz we gave him the wrong blood. Oh, and be nice to Cameron. She's going trough some hard—difficult—stuff right now." I raised an interested eyebrow. "I don't know exactly what, but I see what you see and am sensitive enough to assume it may not have anything to do with me." He probably would have said more if we had been alone another couple of seconds, but there was some sort of an emergency with the patient. I dealt with it as best I could, and then went home, where I sat on the sofa watching TV and nursing a beer for the rest of the night.

"What is Jimmy doing," I shouted at Kutner. He raised his arms in a helpless gesture. "Oh thank God you're here! Whatever would I do without your sage advice," I mocked.

"Even if I had an idea, good or bad, you wouldn't listen to anything I have to say," he explained. I shrugged. He had a point. That's when I realized something, something huge. "Wow, that was actually…you can relax, House," he instructed. "You always listened to me when it counted. Don't feel too—how many times to I have to tell you I didn't shoot myself because of anything you did?"

I shrugged then added, "how about 42?" He chuckled, lightly. "I'm goin' to Wilson's place. You gonna come with or what?" Lawrence followed me, and he was actually quiet the whole time we were there. He watched, giggling a little when I stuffed a potato chip in my mouth, my face two inches away from Wilson—who didn't even flinch.

"I'm going to sleep," Jimmy told me a few hours later, rubbing his lips between yawns. "Unless you need something." I shrugged. "You gonna stay on the couch tonight?" I pretended not to give a crap. "I can give you a ride to work in the morning."

"Whatever," I muttered; looking over at my invisible friend, as if to ask if he'd figured anything out. He said nothing, did nothing. "Not gonna sleep at my place, might as well not sleep here. You're couch is more comfortable than mine." The guy raced back over, and sat down beside me, touching my hair, gently, but not the least bit sexually. At least, I didn't think it was sexual.

"Have you gotten any sleep since—since," he seemed genuinely concerned about me and I thought about messing with him, saying no, telling him I was going for the world record, but changed my mind at the last second and nodded. "In that case—since you're gonna be up—feel free to raid the refrigerator."

"I'm okay," I lied, then stayed up all night watching crap on TV and pretending like I couldn't hear Kutner. When he asked why I wouldn't answer, I told him, "Because, if Wilson overhears, he'll have me locked up in the nuthatch, probably even the same one as his brother. That way he can visit us both at the same time." I could tell he wasn't sure how to react to that. The next morning Jimmy had Bran Flakes and skim milk. Nobody said much of anything, except Lawrence, who kept trying to get me to open up to Wilson. Back at work I had to jump right back into the case, which—I guess—was good because it meant I was too busy to deal with whatever this food thing meant, and I didn't have to feel like a moron. Until Taub came up with the great idea; the great idea that should have been mine. "Did you think of that," I asked Kutner when he had gone. "I didn't think of that. How could I not come up with that?"

"If you could do this all on your own, solve every case, think of all the crazy treatments, do the tests by yourself, talk to the paitents and their—okay you get the picture—you wouldn't need any of us. You picked me, Taub, and Hadley because we can come up with this stuff on those rare occasions when you do drop the ball, or too messed up to think it up on your own because your boyfriend died and your only other friend is treating you weirdly."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I muttered, and then went to go see Jimmy. _Maybe he'll have an answer for me, _I thought. "I lost my mojo," I explained. He made fun of me. "I think I'm losing my mind."

"Good," Jimmy said, frank and bluntly. I couldn't believe my ears. Lawrence told me to sock the guy. My brain told me to push him, (physically) to yell, scream, do something! And another part of me said I oughta fall to my knees and collapse in a fit of tears; let him see how big of a breakdown I was having.

"I'm supposed to be the guy who sees everything and yet…I didn't see it coming with Kutner, which doubly sucks because we were practically living together. I have no idea what's happening here with you, and Taub just came up with an idea for our patient that I should have thought of on my own. I'm two seconds away from taking advice from my pet ret and all you can say is _good_?" Jimmy went on this obnoxious rant about how I _should _be losing it, and the way this shit just happens for no reason. He even said the same thing about Taub that Kutner had. Then, he realized something huge.

"And as you—you and, you were. Wait. You were...with Kutner?" I nodded, and Jimmy stared, mouth agape. I may have actually blushed. "So you're," he whispered, stopping himself before he finished that sentence.

"A fag?" He looked positively mortified, and started rubbing the back of his hand against his lips so hard he almost broke the skin. "Not really. More like a 3 on the Kinsey Scale."

"Oh," Jimmy said, not at all intrigued. _Crap _I thought, and looked to Lawrence nervously. _Is he still gonna like me or did I blow it big time. _

"Don't worry. He's interested, not disgusted," he explained. Wilson got a page—though I suspected it was a fake one—and had to leave, but not before telling me I should feel free to snoop around. I did, but found nothing. "You should go downstairs and get something to eat. Haven't had anything in almost two days." Kutner dragged me to the cafeteria, and made me buy a sandwich, which I had most of, but couldn't finish.

"What is going on in my life," I whimpered, pulling apart the last few pieces, of bread and cheese and playing with them. He shrugged sadly. "You're no help." I left my plate there, got up, and went back to my office where I spent the rest of the afternoon pouting. Then, I saw Jimmy heading for the vending machine, and followed the guy again. "There's no health food in there," I taunted. He turned around and smiled. "So, what are you gonna get?" There was a secret meaning behind my statement: _Please talk to me._

"I haven't decided yet," he lied—badly. The secret meaning behind that statement was: _I'm a little freaked out right now, why don't you leave me a lone for a little while, okay? _

"But you already put your money in. You never do that until you're sure what you're going to get." Secret meaning: _Please stop ignoring me and act like you don't hate me. _He picked D10. "Gummy bears? But you hate gummy bears!" He shrugged, as he started to walk away. "But more importantly, I hate them." Wilson raised his eyebrow. Secret meaning: _about fucking time. _"You manipulative bitch!"

"What the Hell is going on here," Kutner asked, pathetically. I smiled. Wilson gave me a little shoulder pat, smiling. "What, he was just—screwing with you? That's—he had you…" I threw him the shut the hell up look. "You couldn't eat or sleep for three days, and you're gonna let him get away with it?"

"You needed me to help you realize that things are still okay," Wilson explained. I nodded, and even smiled a little more. He said more, about Amber, and us, and life, but I wasn't really paying attention. "It's okay if you're still a little, or even a lot, mad at me."

"You manipulative bitch," I repeated Jimmy actually sort of hugged me—still as a friend, I think—and he promised he wouldn't do anything like that ever again. "Don't say that, and definitely don't do it. I like things the way they are now…well, the way they were before, and they're getting towards being that way again." Then, I solved the cause, cured the patient, and Jimmy and I went out for burgers and beers.

"So, um—if you don't mind me asking—when you and he…I mean, how exactly did you work out the whole, um. You know what, this is probably completely inappropriate. Nevermind."

"You wanna know about the mechanics of how he and I do—did it? Not just 'cuz of the gay thing, but because I'm—because my leg isn't exactly set up for screwing guys or girls, but especially guys." He didn't actually blush this time, but his ears did turn slightly pink.

"Like I said, you don't have to tell me." He stared down at his shoes, one hand disappearing under the table. I knew he wouldn't start playing with himself in a public restaurant, but I liked the idea of him getting turned on by thinking about me and sex. It's sort of years to be honest. I had spent twenty years being friends with the guy, and yet I'd never really thought about him that way before Kutner brought it up. Jimmy was—is—sort of pretty, almost feminine. And he liked me, which requires that the person be insanely kind, sensitive, and understanding.

"You might not want to embarrass the guy like that, unless you want him to be too chicken to go near you for like a month," Kutner warned, worried I might go into more detail than I had. I just smiled.

"I can be quiet," I told him almost silently. "I mean, uh, mostly I'd sit on the couch or lie in bed or prop myself up with pillows, in the bed, and then he'd sit...in my lap. After that it's not really too different from girl on top—opps, did I just humiliate you?" He wasn't blushing, but it was close. I smiled, running my tongue back and forth across my upper lip.

"Uh, no, no you did a pretty good job of being discreet, which for you is actually impressive. Maybe I should nominate you for an Oscar," he teased, almost back to normal for us.

"Maybe I should get wasted and drunk-dial that nurse, and get her to—" I started to say, but stopped when _Jimmy_ made the puppy dog face. "Shit—I won't say anything like that ever again, I promise."

"It didn't bother me because of what happened to Amber. I got dumped. And don't blame yourself. This was just a rebound relationship anyway." I smiled, opening a straw and blowing the wrapper at him.

"Good to know," I muttered. "I was starting to worry you didn't understand the concept of a rebound." He threw a French fry at my face. "Aren't you supposed to be the responsible one?"

"The two of you really are perfect for each other," Kutner moaned. "Why not just squirt a bottle full of ketchup all over him. Maybe you can ruin his nice, new shirt." I shrugged. Wilson asked about my relationship with Lawrence.

"He was funny, and thoughtful—and I usually hate that almost as much as I hate adorable and sweet—both of which he also was, and I dunno. I'm really gonna miss the guy. Just not sure what…"

"You let yourself be vulnerable again. After Julie and I got divorced, I swore I was done dating, but then I met Amber and just—and I just realized that you don't want to hear this. Forget I said anything, again."

"You don't hafta feel awkward. I mean, of all the stuff I could point out that was screwed up about or wrong with CT—I mean Amber, you could probably come up with ten more things about Kutner, all of them way worse than her stuff." I admitted. He smiled, and Wilson actually laughed. And not just the little snicker either, the real one, the way he only laughed when he thought something was really, really funny. "And we could each come up with just as many things we liked about them."

"That's true." A minute passed. Two. Three. "If you want to go back to calling her bitch or whatever, you don't need to worry. I won't get pissed," Wilson promised. I didn't say a word. It wasn't that I'd changed my opinion of her, I was just—I don't know for sure what. I felt weird about the whole thing. Almost as weird as it felt talking to Dead Kutner, actually. "She was sort of—well she was kind of a bitch."

"Yeah, but I still feel messed up right now," I explained. Jimmy nodded. He also promised me that the feeling _would _go away eventually, but, it was still bizarre. He dropped me off at home an hour later. Technically, he parked, helped me stumble, drunkenly to the couch, and we sat, talking with for forty minutes before he took my not so subtle hint (i.e. me telling him to leave, now!) seriously.

"Are you sure you're okay to be alone right now?" Wilson was worried about me, but then again, he was always worried about me. This wasn't too different from our usual.

"Yes, sure, I'll be…something," I said, sighing. He smiled, put his hand on my shoulder, took a step towards the door, came back, hugged me, said goodbye, lingered in the entryway, like he expected me to beg him to stay, and finally left.

"You did good tonight," Kutner said, uselessly. I laughed, but when he sat down beside me, I pulled his arms around my shoulders. We sat like that for a while, and eventually, the half-drunken tiredness just seemed to fade away. I got up, poured myself a scotch and walked to the piano, not really playing, just to sort of mess around a bit. I don't know long I was sitting there before it happened—again—but this time all I could do was sit and stare, pathetically, like a little kid.

"Congratulation," a familiar, yet unfriendly voice taunted. "You solved another case." Amber floated across the room, stood beside me, bent down and spoke directly into my ear. "Guess you're not losing your mind after all. I sighed, and thought about trying to jump up and run to the bedroom, so I could get away, but decided she—like Kutner—could probably walk through doors and stuff, or catch up with me.

"Yeah, except for the hallucinations and talking to people who aren't there." Amber looked around the room, her hair swinging just a little, all pretty and smooth.

"People," she questioned. I almost laughed, and started to look for Kutner. "House, I'm the only one here." _No, no, no, no, this is a trick; it has to be! She's screwing with my head. Yeah that's it. _

"So, they what—didn't trust Kutner to keep an eye on me, and brought you in to make sure that I don't do anything stupid or crazy?" She didn't say a word to me, just sat down beside me on the little piano bench, and lay one delicate palm on my leg, along the inside of my thigh.

"Kutner? They? Maybe you are losing it after all," she giggled. "What _are _you talking about?" The hand on my leg slid closer towards my crotch, fingers reaching for the fly. Against my better judgment, I told her everything, about Kutner, the "afterlife," Wilson, the gift that was still on a shelf in the kitchen, no longer hidden in the box. "He's dead House; he can't be in your apartment, or anywhere else for that matter."

"You're dead, and still here. You are talking to me, trying to jack me off, or fuck me, or suck my cock. You keep teasing me. In more ways than one." She laughed again, fingers reaching around and popping my jeans open. "Wh-what are you doing?" I was suddenly that tiny, terrified toddler version of myself, and the bitch—while still appearing to be herself—was the monster who'd tormented me in dreams, nightmares, and waking world for more than half my life.

"Only I'm not really here," se explained. "This is all in your imagination. So, I'm trying to make it interesting for you. Trying to make you more comfortable." _ Blah, blah, blah, _I thought, brushing her hand away.

"But if you are in my—if you really are just a hallucination, does that mean Kutner is too? _Am _I insane? Am I, whatever," I asked, a little nervous, and a lot confused. She shrugged, reaching for me again. I shivered, trying to figure out why this was bothering me so much. Amber was pretty, and—according to Wilson—a good lay. So, I should have no reason to be scared of her, but I was. "Then, why are you here?"

"Probably because you feel guilty about what happened to me and to Wilson, and to Kutner."

"But—I…" She pushed me down flat on the seat, so I was almost laying on it. Amber slid my pants down past my hips, and climbed onto my lap. "Stop," I begged, suddenly terrified of her. I began to shriek. The next thing I knew, I was back on the couch, face down, staring up at Lawrence's t-shirt, and feeling his hands softly stroking my hair, while he sort of shook me with the other.

"You were screaming in your sleep; I figured you were having a nightmare or something. So, I woke you up," he explained. I nodded, silently, and felt my hand on my chin, but didn't move it away. "Did I do something wrong?" I shook my head. "Wanna talk aobut it?"

"No, but since you're gonna make me discuss this no matter what I want, might as well take control of the situation." He seemed even more worried about me than before. "You disappeared. Amber showed up. She wasn't actually being mean, but I was still kind of scared of—stuff, and I...she pushed me down on the piano bench, and tried to mount me, which usually I would of liked, but I always feel powerless in dreams… Especially sex dreams." He nodded, hugging me tightly.

"You don't have to worry, I won't leave until _you're _ready for me to go," he promised. I didn't have to tell him he was being an idiot specifically. The annoyed grunt did it for me. "Oh knock it off; we both know you're terrified of waking up alone again. Before I came into your life you were used to it. When we were together you were okay with it, but started to lose it after a couple of weeks, but now." Lawrence shook his head. "Can't leave 'till you're okay."

"You had no qualms about "leaving me all alone" when you offed yourself." More puppy dog eyes. I looked away. "Stupid," I muttered. Lawrence asked to whom I was referring; him or me. "Both of us, I guess. You because of what you did, because of this, and for expecting me to believe anything you say to me ever again. I'm stupid because Wilson practically offered to sleep over and I made him leave. Plus I'm starting to believe you, not just the stuff you say, but that it's really and truly the ghost or whatever of the real Kutner." He sighed and did that weird arm pat thing Chase did when I came back to work after getting shot a few years back.

"Amber was sort of on the—uh—short list of people to come and annoy you until things gets better," he explained, after a minute. I could actually feel my own eyes get all wide like a couple of saucers. _What? _"It's a difficult enough transition from death to…the other place, and they wanted to send someone right away. I was perfect except for the fact that I'm still recovering form…I want to be here, House. I like you, and I'm the only one who could do this," he continued to explain. I sighed, yawning. "Don't worry," he explained, almost gently.

"What happens if I'm never ready for you to leave," I asked, more to annoy him than out of actual concern. Maybe I was a little curious but that was totally different. I'm always curious about something. "You said a week maybe two. What if I'm still really messed up then? What if I'm not beter six months from now, ten years from now?"

"You'll be _with_ Wilson in less than six months. Before the end of the year, you'll be living together. He will make you want to never so much hear my name again, let alone feel like hanging out with my ghost." I laughed just a little—again—and sighed. "You just wanna be normal for once, right?"

"I want it not to hut anymore." I was sort of freaked, and hurt, and I was still trying to calm down after the whole fiasco with Jimmy. I'd pretended it hadn't bothered me, hadn't upset me in the least. But it wasn't, I wasn't. Stuff had technically worked out and everything was supposedly fine. We were fine but…it still bothered me A whole week of not knowing what my best friend was doing, a whole week of him lying to me, basically hurting me, without knowing it, and even after he'd fessed up, I still wasn't doing so well. I wanted Jimmy to mess with me, and his messing with me turned me into a nervous, unhappy wreck. Not that it was too far of a drive. "Is that the same thing?" I asked, not even a little annoyed.

"Yeah," he explained, rubbing my back. "Sort of. It's okay to feel that way," Kutner tried to offer. "You wanna hear that, which is weird because you're not really worried about that stuff." Kutner began to quote, "Life sucks, and most people would rather rip your throat out than spend five seconds being decent to each other. They hurt each other, they hurt you. So, it makes sense that anyone who is even a little bit nice to anyone—especially you—is either trying to trick, or will one day leave them."

"Are we doing impersonations of each other? Oh! Can I be Foreman? That way I'll get to sleep with Thirteen and I can get away with making really bad jokes about his family and his car stealing days." I couldn't figure out why Lawrence was wasting his time restating something I'd told him almost two years ago. "I already knew that."

"I know. You've believed that since you were 12." _Seven, _I thought. "Maybe even young, and all I did was go and make things worse." I rolled my eyes. _Get on with it already. _"Wilson won't be able to make you believe otherwise, but you guys are perfect for each other. He goes up with wounded, needy people and stays with them until they're strong enough to not need him anymore. Then, he gets bored and dumps 'em but, even with every bit of his attention focused on you, that's never gonna happen to you, Greg, and you won't drain his abilities either. If anything, he'll feed off of your pain and anguish and depression, and you'll feel slightly better because he's actually going to be there every single time you need him. There won't be any girlfriends or wives to get in the way. His brother's getting healthier, so he won't have to worry about that anymore, and he'll. Even if you kept him up all night on Thursday because you had an abused kid as a patient and freaked out, you won't be afraid to wake him up at 4:00 AM the next day." _I do that now. _"You hold back sometimes, mostly because you're afraid he'll leave, or stop liking you, or something." I grunted, not making any actual sarcastic retort. He was sort of, kinda (not really) right

"But Wilson already tried living here once," I muttered, but it took me way to long to think that one up. "Didn't work out so well. He goes to bed early; I stay up late. He gets up at down; I sleep in. And he's a neat freak who thinks I'll actually do chores." Kutner smiled listening to my comments, like he was expecting them. "You have an answer for that too? What a surprise. Oh, hey in this amazing, perfect, new life is my leg gonna heal itself?"

"First off, there's no such thing as perfect. Second, yes there are differences between the two of you but the last time he lived here, guy was going through a bad divorce, which made every little wrong thing you did seem way worse than it was. He'll be better now." I tried to think of something clever to combat this, but didn't totally hate the idea, and I knew he'd realize anything I said was just me trying to be annoying. "You should be afraid of opening up to him, or me." _I'm not afraid of anything involving you, _I wanted to scream. "You're scared I'm gonna leave before you're fixed, and then you won't be able to handle living anymore. I told you, I'm not leaving until you you're ready."

"What if I tell you to leave, but I'm not actually okay with it yet," I asked, which was pretty much the only thing I'd been all that worried about—aside from freaking out over Wilson's prank—since I'd decided to let myself believe this really was Lawrence Kutner.

"Well that one actually does sound like you. That your plan?' I shrugged, pulling away. "Relax, I'm not gonna listen to your words, when I know what you're really thinking," he explained. "No, I can't read your mind, not exactly but I know how you think well enough to figure out a thing or two. I'll stay until you're really ready," he promised. I told him I didn't need to hear that, but when he said, "Yeah you do," we both knew it was sort of the truth. I lay there tiredly for a while, but didn't feel much like going back to sleep. I was still a little freaked out over my dream. Sex dreams for me were never really about sex. I mostly had this feeling like I was being attacked—regardless of who was doing me, or who I was doing—in them. I didn't tell Kutner about this, but the guy still seemed to understand. I decided to stay awake, and lay on the sofa, staring up at his face, listening to him tell me all about his favorite toys, books, movies, and TV shows. It was almost like he had never died at all. Kutner even told me about his Guinness world records. Almost all of it was boring, but I think he wanted to make "So," he prodded sometime later. "You ready to go and open up your birthday present?"


End file.
